Dreaming the Mundane

How many poems begin with last night's dream? The dusty files in the library of my mind hold too many that begin with God visiting the poet in his sleep. Whispering in his ear. Sending him to words of rapture. I fancy myself a poet and, time to time, fall asleep and into dreaming. Last night, my god whispered, “bring a screwdriver to work.” In the dream, it was the key to happiness. This morning I woke, still basking in the glow of that dream, remembering that I really do need a screwdriver at work. My desk is too high and the screws refuse to yield to a pair of scissors. I pulled from the drawer a red screwdriver (on which so much depends). I put it in my bag feeling only feeble light from heaven. Later, I'll remove the screws and adjust my desk. For now, I wonder why it is that my god and I are fixed on things so far from rapture and so much nearer the mundane.